Free Shamrock Alley by Ronald Damien Malfi Page A

first appearance of the evening.
    “You want a drink?”
    “Beer’d be nice.” Sloopy was looking over Kersh’s shoulder at the Lounge’s main stage. A half-nude girl twisted herself between two brass poles. The club was small and oppressively hot, and beads of sweat dotted her body, reflecting the stage lights.
    Kersh ordered two beers and did not say anything until they arrived and Sloopy started to drink.
    “You remember those counterfeit bills I mentioned to you last week?”
    “Oh, sure.”
    “You heard anything, seen anything since then?”
    Sloopy feigned contemplation, contorting the contours of his face until he resembled the twisted crown of a tied garbage bag.
    “No, no, no cunnerfut.”
    “Those guys you run with, Sloopy—you think they’d know anything?”
    “No, sir. I ast around about it for you. Ain’t none of ‘em deal in cunnerfut. We all gettin’ ourselves cleaned up, don’t you know?”
    “How’s your beer?”
    “A little warm. It’s good, though. I’ll drink it, sure.”
    Sloopy Black usually slithered around the city with a horde of similar degenerates, eating where he found food, stealing what he could use to get by. The most harmful crimes committed by Sloopy Black and those like him were the crimes they committed against themselves. The morning after a good night, the gray skin of Sloopy’s forearms was bruised to a brilliant purple and dotted with needle pricks. On the same mornings, Kersh also noticed a fading resonance in Sloopy’s eyes … like a roaring fire slowly being starved of oxygen. Yet Sloopy and his ilk were the truest eyes and ears of the city. They crept along the sewer-laden streets on their bellies, sniffing the ground, the air, the people. They knew of murders before bodies were ever discovered; they lived among the refuse of mankind only to become quite adept in recognizing their kin, and found great satisfaction relating such information to anyone who bothered to spare the time and the dollar. Sloopy was no different than any other informant—it was important to listen to what he had to say, lies and all. It was Kersh’s job to sift through the muck and compile the salvageable bits of information, no matter how diluted in bullshit they may be.
    Kersh tapped a finger on the tabletop to gather Sloopy’s attention. “You still got that card with the phone number I gave to you?”
    “Sure.” Sloopy’s eyes lingered on Kersh. “Mr. Bill? You okay?”
    From across the room, Kersh watched as the young stripper swayed over to the edge of the stage, squatted down on her haunches while flipping back her mane of hair, and extended a libidinous smile to the middle-aged gentleman seated at the foot of the stage. She seemed to rise in slow motion, and just as the horizon of her g-string crested the brass railing, the middle-aged man reached out to her, a slender dollar bill folded lengthwise between his fingers, and slipped his stubby fingers beneath the elastic lip of her underwear.
    “Mr. Bill—”
    Kersh stood up sharply. Without glancing down at Sloopy, he tossed some money on the table and waved his hand at the informant.
    “Mr. Bill…”
    “I’ll talk to you later,” Kersh said. “I have to go.”
    He was already moving toward the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    “W HAT ARE YOU DOING?” K ATIE GAME UP behind him and began rubbing his shoulders. The ceiling light threw her shadow across the kitchen table.
    “Going over some paperwork,” he said. “Is it late?” He was bent over the kitchen table like a monk in prayer. An hour ago, his back had started hurting; now, the pain had grown so dull—or he’d become so accustomed to it—that he hardly felt anything at all.
    “Sort of. Do you know what I think?”
    “Hmmm?” he responded noncommittally.
    “I think we should get some of those fancy Italian fixtures for the bathroom. The real shiny ones.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I forget the brand name I’m thinking of…”
    “I like